


To touch is to heal (to hurt is to steal)

by Miladygrey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, Post-Movie, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miladygrey/pseuds/Miladygrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clint said you complimented his heart, before you mindfucked him. So this may not work on you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To touch is to heal (to hurt is to steal)

Post-saving New York, post-shawarma, post-hugs and some crying and lots and lots of aspirin for everyone, Natasha slips out of her bed into the darkness of Stark Towers. Stark Ruin, now, Stark Building Vaguely Tower-Shaped, But Mostly Falling Down. They're all asleep, especially Thor (he ate all the pita. _All_ of it), and she has time and opportunity.

The vault is sealed as only Tony Stark can seal things, but Jarvis politely defers to her voice. "Do you require anything else, Ms. Romanov?"

She does, yes. "Where is Loki?"

He is gagged and bound in some unused storeroom, it seems, god of mischief locked down into banality and boredom. She sees his eyes flash as she walks in, wearing one of Tony's ancient '80s rock tee shirts and holding his spear. He makes a noise, low and amused, around the gag. Sounds like 'valkyrie'.

"I don't want to hear it."

His brows lift.

"Clint said that you complimented his heart, before you mindfucked him." Bruce and Tony had tried to tiptoe around the facts of the matter, but Clint had not spared a detail, nor himself in the retelling. "So this may not work on you."

The spear's sharp tip tears another ragged hole in his former finery, and he stares at the blue glow around the blade with sudden, nervous awareness. He meets her eyes, then deliberately cringes away. _No._

She pushes it in, savoring the familiar feel of edge through flesh. _Yes._

He doesn't make a sound, but she sees his throat working for a few seconds of--something, pain, shock, surprise. Then the cobalt light reaches his eyes, and he settles back on his knees, gaze suddenly fixed on her. Attentive.

She looks back. "If I take that gag out, will you obey me?"

He nods, quick and eager, her very own pet Loki.

Once the silver gag is removed (oddly flexible metal, and she wonders if it's common in Asgard, and if they might export), she stares down at him. He makes no move to try and stand up, just studying her face from his kneeling position, as intent as ever, but without the underlying malice.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks.

Oh god, the list. The many, many things she wants him to do, many of which are impossible, others of which are deadly, several both. "Do you remember what you did to Agent Barton?"

"Yes. I made him one of mine."

"Would you have done that to me?"

"No. I would have killed you. You are too dangerous. If the Tesseract's hold broke, you would have run mad."

"Is that what I should do to you?"

He shudders, and drops his eyes briefly. "I am dangerous. I am broken. I am lonely, and bitter, and I _hate_ \--" Torn out of him. "You should kill me. My brother is a fool, to take me to justice in Asgard. Better he should turn me over immediately to Heimdall's great sword."

She likes this Heimdall already. "Do you remember what you said to me?" There's no quaver in her voice now, no careful blink. There are levels and levels in the game, but this is no game. Just two people telling each other truths in the dark.

He does not even try to repeat it. "Yes."

"Are you sorry?"

He cringes--the great god who told Stuttgart to kneel is fucking _cringing_ in front of five foot four Natasha Romanov. "Yes. Yes."

She holds the spear still, so still, and puts all the push behind her words, hoping they cut and bruise and tear. "Who. Is. Mewling. Now?"

Like a child, he bites his lip, magic-blue eyes looking up at her then away, in search of some semblance of pity. "I am sorry, lady Natasha. So sorry. I would make it up to you if I could..."

"How? Fix the city with your great Asgardian powers? Make up to Thor and be his little brother again?" She hopes he's screaming inside at the idea, hopes that whatever fragment of his mind still belongs to him is snarlingly livid and yet still obedient. "Be our sidekick?"

"I will serve however you deem appropriate, lady."

The urge to cut him, to see a god's blood pour out, is almost irresistible. But she will not drown her ledger. Not today, not for this. Instead, she steps closer, shoving one hand into his thick dark hair and holding his head still. She lets the spear fall, clattering dully on the old linoleum, and feels him relax a fraction. "You'll serve."

He lifts his head as much as she'll allow, canting it sideways to try and catch her eye, and she can read lust even through the blue haze of control. It's really the easiest thing in the world to spot. "At your wish and command, lady."

When she lets go of his hair, he leans his head against her thigh, and she can feel his breath. She keeps her hand on his head. Just knowing she can push him away is enough. "I could command you to be a mare."

He actually laughs, a brief, hoarse chuckle that slips across her skin. "There were extenuating circumstances," he murmurs, "which I will describe to you if you wish. But there are better things to do, surely?"

And there are, infinitely better things for a silver-tongued god known for his cleverness and endless ingenuity to do. His skin is cool (and she will ask Thor about that), but his mouth is shockingly warm, and his hair tangles between her fingers as she pulls him in between her thighs and feels/hears him moan in satisfaction, and she is dizzy with the heat and hunger of his mouth on her and how he strains to get close, to lick and bite a little further, deeper, more--

She comes without making a sound, another useful trick, and as soon as her body settles she flings him back into the wall with a violence she thinks the Hulk might admire.

The spear is back in her hand before the blue bleeds from his eyes, and she knows the exact moment it comes clear to him, because her hand is on the gag and he tries to spit it out and go for her throat with nothing but his teeth and his rage. So she hits him again, and once more to be sure, until he's dazed enough for her to ensure that all his restraints are precisely as they were.

"Now you know," she tells him, close enough that the blue glow shades his skin (it looks oddly natural on him). "You know what it feels like. What it felt like to Barton, to Solveig. And you know we can do it to you. Some fucking god."

He snarls something garbled around the gag. She smiles--or tries, it may be a rictus. "Did you say something? You, bridled and bitted and gentled?"

She can hear him howling, his wordless, muffled rage following her out of the tiny room, back up to the vault, where Jarvis thanks her for the return of the spear, then up stairs and through hallways and an unexpected Jacuzzi, until she finds her bed again. Clint is there (how does he always end up with her?) and drapes herself over her like a drowsy cat as she wriggles back under the sheets.

"I made him scream," she whispers in his ear.

"My arrow blew up in his hand," Clint says without opening his eyes.

She resists the urge to punch him in his bruised ribs and closes her eyes. Makes one last note for the day in her ledger.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a comment on a kinkmeme somewhere that said simply "Loki kneeling to Natasha". 
> 
> Title is from U2's song "Mysterious Ways".


End file.
